


Blessings Still To Count

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Post ep "Terra Prime". Trip considers good fortune in the midst of grief.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
> **Author's notes:** Not mine. Paramount owns 'em, I just play.  
>  Unbeta'd as evet.  
> Spoilers (inevitably) 4.20 "Demons" & 4.21 "Terra Prime". Also some for "The Expanse"

It was our choice to do it this way. The brass wanted a funeral service on Earth, with all the names from the conference attending, but we said no - T'Pol and I agreeing for once - and I'm glad Jon made them listen. She was our daughter, dammit! We decide how her existence should be commemorated. Hell, we had no say in its beginning.

So the Enterprise family's all assembled in Launch Bay One to say goodbye to one of its own - however briefly. She'll be shot out from Jupiter Station in a torpedo tube, to float free through space. Not confined to the planet that created her as a symbol of its species' capacity to hate. She wasn't human anyway - not to them. Why should her remains be tied down there?

I'm not listening to the words of the memorial service. What is there anyone can say about a child only a few months old? A child created in a laboratory experiment by maniacs with no real idea what they're doing?

My daughter. Elizabeth Tucker.

The first Human-Vulcan hybrid ever born. Phlox says she could have survived just fine, had Paxton and his cronies taken just a little more care.

T'Pol stands stiffly beside me. Elizabeth was her child too, and I know I should reach out for her, squeeze her hand. Let her know she isn't suffering alone.

But I can't. There was something near a break in her voice when we talked the other night. They repress their emotions; that don't mean they don't feel them, but she won't allow the surface calm to crack, even when she stares at the wreath of pink, white and yellow flowers that bears our baby's name. And I just can't wrap my illogical little human brain around that.

Figure it's going to be a while before there's another like Elizabeth born. Humans and Vulcans can mate; they can breed naturally. But I look at this woman - once my lover, still my good friend, still (if I'm honest with myself) the woman I care more for than any other I know - and I wonder: why in Hell would they choose to?

There's a gentle pressure on my left hand, and all that childish resentment melts away. God, I pity her! There's nobody to hold T'Pol's hand. No strong supporting shoulder to sway against when the weight of this grief overwhelms her. I couldn't have gotten though the last few days without the love of the wonderful, quietly compassionate little dynamo at my side.

It was Malcolm who urged me to talk to T'Pol. Malcolm who held me when I got back to my quarters in tears, who stroked my hair and whispered words of reassurance and love 'til I was quiet, limp and exhausted against his tear-soaked chest. More surprisingly, it was Malcolm who didn't remove T'Pol's spleen with his bare hands when she had the audacity to ask him to _be there for Commander Tucker_ at this endless, agonising service.

Like he'd be anywhere else! There was a touch of admiration in her eyes when she told me his immediate, oh-so-human response. "T'Pol, I hope you know I'll be there for both of you. We all will. That's what friends are for."

He's watching me under the screen of his long, spiky lashes, his fingers wrapped around mine. He knows I'm fighting for breath, that tears are trickling again as Captain Archer speaks Elizabeth's name. He won't draw attention to it, stretching up to brush them away the way a Tucker most likely would. 

No: he just presses my fingers, reminding me it is okay to cry, that he's right beside me. When I risk a peek at his face I see he's biting his lips hard, those gorgeous grey-blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. He daren't look my way. Guess seeing me break down would be too much even for our resident stiff-upper-lipped Brit to bear.

Yes, T'Pol deserves my pity. She'll leave the launch bay for her quarters. Light her meditation candles and begin her rhythmical Vulcan chants, seeking peace inside herself. I hope she finds it. I couldn't.

I wouldn't want to. I'll walk out of here with Malcolm's hand gripped in mine. We'll go back to his quarters and hold each other however long it takes until we're both feeling able to do more. Because he _is_ my peace. I realised that months ago; long before my DNA was twined unauthorised with T'Pol's to form an exhibit in Paxton's Terra Prime freak show. 

Yes, I want children someday. If Elizabeth had survived I would have tried to be the Poppa to her my daddy's been to me. And I know T'Pol would've been a good mother. I'm surprised to find myself thinking that, because Momma Tucker is every kid's idea of the perfect parent and T'Pol would be nothing like her.

But she's not the one I want laboratories mixing my genetic code with. When the time comes - when we're back on Earth, when he's come around to understanding his Daddy being a lousy parent don't mean he's going to be the same - there'll be a little Charles Tucker IV with the middle names of Malcolm Reed. Maybe a girl too - Maddie, for his sister, or Leanne, for her Tucker Grandma. Not Elizabeth, though. That name ain't brought much luck to its owners in two generations.

Then we'll need a second son, one to carry on the Reed name Mal's so proud of. A solemn little boy with thick, silky dark chocolate hair and light, bright eyes that change colour with his moods. Maybe we'll give him Charles and Tucker as middle names. That would be fair, right?

And they'll know all about their big half-sister Elizabeth one day. Malcolm won't mind. He told me before we walked down here I owe it to her to remember her. Remember how much I love her.

Aw shit, now I'm really crying and I can't stop. T'Pol's giving me a look from the corner of her eye, but what's way worse is that Malcolm's let go of my...

Oh. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me round until my head can pillow against his shoulder. His free arm comes up to encircle me, and I can't help it. I bury my face against the dark fabric of his dress uniform and bawl.

The material's going to be sticking to his shoulder. Everybody's going to be staring at us. But I don't care, and as his hands rub soothing circles against my back, I realise he doesn't either. Folks can talk and point all they like after. Right now I need him, and Malcolm _it's-not-proper-to-make-a-scene_ Reed cares more about me than propriety.

If that's not a measure of devotion, I don't know what is.

His caresses do the job; I'm calm enough to step forward with T'Pol, our hands joining on the button that releases our daughter's mortal remains out to drift forever through the enormity of space. "God bless, Elizabeth Tucker," I whisper, the words my grandmother used each time she said goodbye to all hundred-thousand of us little Tuckers when we left her house to walk down the street to our own. I won't forget. Her little brothers and sisters will know about her. 

And they'll know about T'Pol, too. I owe her that.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as the mourners - all our crewmates, our big, troublesome family - start to drift away. Her dark eyes are shadowy but still dry as they meet my red and swollen ones. Am I apologising for the abuse of our DNA? For what happened between us? Or for the fact I can't be what she needed, any more than she could be the one for me? I don't know.

She takes my hand, and it doesn't matter. I care for her as she does for me, and that's not an easy thing for a Vulcan to admit, you know. "As am I. You'll be all right?"

"Fine." The word - Malcolm's word - is out before I can stop it. "T'Pol, if you need anything..."

"Thank you." She's beautiful, serene even in grief, but it's so damn cold I yearn for the heat of my soul mate's touch. Have I told him that yet? That he's _The One_ for Charles Tucker the Third, and I can't imagine my life without him filling it?

Probably not, but I'm going to, soon. "Will you be..." I stumble. T'Pol gives me that odd little regal tilt of the head.

"I will meditate," she says, her voice clear. "Now go. Malcolm is waiting for you."

I don't think I've ever heard her call him anything less formal than _Mister Reed_ before. Guess even a Vulcan can understand humanity well enough to realise that wouldn't be appropriate right now. Or maybe it's just this Vulcan. She's gotten experience of out little ways, after all.

I have to blow my nose against my sleeve before I turn toward him, hovering silently by the launch bay's open doors. Without a word he produces a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, holding it out for me.

"Always prepared," I croak, feeling my mouth stretch into the weirdest attempt at a grin in history. Malcolm shrugs.

"Eagle scout," he replies, tucking his hand into the crook of my arm. "Ready?"

"You bet." Elizabeth will always be a part of me, however little part I played in her creation. But like her namesake, she's gone. 

I'm still here. I can live for the both of them.

And I will do. With Malcolm. 

He's utterly, adorably shocked when I stop us dead in the corridor and kiss him. "My little sister would've loved you; did I ever tell y' that?"

"You've always said she was a woman of taste." He kisses me back, giving me a tug that sets us into motion again. This time, I think my smile's almost natural. 

"We never had a service for her."

Malcolm stops dead again, and when he looks up, his face is shuttered. Only those lovely light eyes show how much he's hurting. "As I recall, you were - not in favour of the idea," he says, dead flat.

I yelled at him. Pretty much told him to butt out of my business - my life - when he mentioned it. Have I told him lately how sorry I am?

"I was a jerk." Can't seem to stop myself brushing his face, running my fingertips across his beautiful cheekbones and down to rub across his fine-drawn mouth. "And I'm damn lucky it didn't lose me the best thing that ever happened to me! I -Mal, d' you think it' too late to have a service for her now?"

He' swallowing hard; figure he knew I'd come 'round someday. "I don't suppose Captain Archer will object," he says hoarsely. People are milling around, but they swerve around us as if we're protected by some kind of force field. "We could ask him in the morning?"

_We._

Together. He's promising, again, to stand beside me.

God, I love that little word! Almost as much as I love the gentle, generous, incredible man who uses it.

"Yes," I agree, my heart fifty pounds lighter as I drag him along the corridor, away from the condoling crowds. I want to be happy again, and both Elizabeth Tuckers, I reckon, would approve of that. "Maybe we'll do that!"


End file.
